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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. XVI. No. 474.] SUPPLEMENTARY NUMBER. [PRICE 2d.

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LORD BYRON.

LETTERS AND JOURNALS OF LORD BYRON, WITH NOTICES OF HIS LIFE, BY THOMASMOORE, Vol. ii.

[To attempt anything like an analysis of a "great big book," of 823 pages, like the present, and that within a sheet of 16 pages, would be an effort of condensation indeed. Besides, the very nature of the volume before us will not admit of such a task being performed with much regard to accuracy or unique character. The "Letters," of which, the work is, in great part, composed, are especially ill adapted for such a purpose; since, many of them become interesting only from manner rather than importance of matter. Horace Walpole's Correspondence would make but a dull book cut in "little stars" in the letter style; and Lord Byron, as a letter writer, resembles Walpole more closely than any other writer of his time. His gay, anecdotical style is delightful--his epithets and single words are always well chosen, and often convey more than one side of the letter of a common-place mind.

Our sheet of Extracts is from such portions of Mr. Moore's volume as appear to illustrate the main points of the Noble Poet's character and habits, as the superscriptions will best explain--_currente calamo_ from pages 22 to 769--within a few leaves of the Appendix.]

HIS SENSIBILITY.

With the following melancholy passage one of his journals concludes:--

"In the weather for this tour (of thirteen days) I have been veryfortunate--fortunate in a companion (Mr. H.)--fortunate in all ourprospects, and exempt from even the little petty accidents and delayswhich often render journeys in a less wild country disappointing. I wasdisposed to be pleased. I am a lover of nature, and an admirer of beauty;I can bear fatigue and welcome privation, and have seen some of thenoblest views in the world. But in all this--the recollection ofbitterness, and more especially of recent and more home desolation, whichmust accompany me through life, have preyed upon me here; and neither themusic of the shepherd, the crashing of the avalanche, nor the torrent, themountain, the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, have for one momentlightened the weight upon my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own wretchedidentity in the majesty, and the power, and the glory, around, above, andbeneath me----."

On his return from an excursion to Diodati, an occasion was afforded forthe gratification of his jesting propensities by the avowal of the youngphysician (Polidori) that--he had fallen in love. On the evening of thistender confession they both appeared at Shelley's cottage--Lord Byron, inthe highest and most boyish spirits, rubbing his hands as he walked aboutthe room, and in that utter incapacity of retention which was one of hisfoibles, making jesting allusions to the secret he had just heard. Thebrow of the doctor darkened as this pleasantry went on, and, at last, heangrily accused Lord Byron of hardness of heart. "I never," said he, "metwith a person so unfeeling." This sally, though the poet had evidentlybrought it upon himself, annoyed him most deeply. "Call _me_cold-hearted--_me_ insensible!" he exclaimed, with manifest emotion--"aswell might you say that glass is not brittle, which has been cast down aprecipice, and lies dashed to pieces at the foot!"

TO AUGUSTA.

I.

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine, Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine. Go where I will, to me thou art the same-- A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny-- A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

II.

The first were nothing--had I still the last, It were the haven of my happiness; But other claims and other ties thou hast, And mine is not the wish to make them less. A strange doom is thy father's son's, and part Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore-- He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

III.

If my inheritance of storms hath been In other elements, and on the rocks Of perils overlook'd or unforeseen, I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen My errors with defensive paradox; I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe.

IV.

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. My whole life was a contest, since the day That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd The gift--a fate, or will, that walk'd astray; And I at times have found the struggle hard, And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay: But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive.

V.

Kingdoms and empires in my little day I have outlived, and yet I am not old; And when I look on this, the petty spray Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: Something--I know not what--does still uphold A spirit of slight patience--not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

VI.

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir Within me--or perhaps a cold despair, Brought on when ills habitually recur-- Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, (For even to this may change of soul refer, And with light armour we may learn to bear,) Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not The chief companion of a calmer lot.

VII.

I feel almost at times as I have felt In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, Which do remember me of where I dwelt Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, Come as of yore upon me, and can melt My heart with recognition of their looks: And even at moments I could think I see Some living thing to love--but none like thee.

VIII.

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create A fund for contemplation.--to admire Is a brief feeling of a trivial date; But something worthier do such scenes inspire: Here to be lonely is not desolate. For much I view which I could most desire, And, above all, a lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

IX.

Oh that thou wert but with me!--but I grow The fool of my own wishes, and forget The solitude which I have vaunted so Has lost its praise in this but one regret; There may be others which I less may show;-- I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet I feel an ebb in my philosophy And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

X.

I did remind thee of our own dear lake, By the old hall which may be mine no more, Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore: Sad havoc Time must with my memory make Ere _that_ or _thou_ can fade these eyes before; Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

XI.

The world is all before me; I but ask Of nature that with which she will comply-- It is but in her summer sun to bask, To mingle with the quiet of her sky, To see her gentle fare without a mask, And never gaze on it with apathy. She was my early friend, and now shall be My sister--till I look again on thee.

XII.

I can reduce all feelings but this one: And that I would not;--for at length I see Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. The earliest--even the only paths for me-- Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, I had been better than I now can be: The passions which have torn me would have slept: I had not suffered, and _thou_ hadst not wept.

XIII.

With false ambition what had I to do? Little with love, and least of all with fame; And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, And made me all which they can make--a name. Yet this was not the end I did pursue; Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. But all is over--I am one the more To baffled millions which have gone before.

XIV.

And for the future, this world's future may From me demand but little of my care; I have outlived myself by many a day; Having survived so many things that were; My years have been no slumber, but the prey Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share Of life that might have filled a century, Before its fourth in time had passed me by.

XV.

And for the remnant which may be to come I am content; and for the past I feel Not thankless--for within the crowded sum Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, And for the present I would not benumb My feelings farther.--Nor shall I conceal, That with all this I still can look around, And worship Nature with a thought profound.

XVI.

For thee my own sweet sister, in thy heart I know myself secure, as thou in mine; We were and are--I am even as thou art-- Beings who ne'er each other can resign; It is the same, together or apart, From life's commencement to its slow decline We are entwined--let death come slow or fast, The tie which bound the first endures the last!

AMOUR AT VENICE.

Venice, November 17, 1816.

"I wrote to you from Verona the other day in my progress hither, whichletter I hope you will receive. Some three years ago, or it may be more, Irecollect you telling me that you had received a letter from our friend,Sam, dated "On board his gondola." _My_ gondola is, at this present,waiting for me on the canal; but I prefer writing to you in the house, itbeing autumn--and rather an English autumn than otherwise. It is myintention to remain at Venice during the winter, probably, as it hasalways been (next to the east) the greenest island of my imagination. Ithas not disappointed me; though its evident decay would, perhaps, havethat effect upon others. But I have been familiar with ruins too long todislike desolation. Besides, I have fallen in love, which, next to fallinginto the canal (which would be of no use, as I can swim,) is the best orthe worst thing I could do. I have got some extremely good apartments inthe house of a "Merchant of Venice," who is a good deal occupied withbusiness, and has a wife in her twenty-second year. Marianna (that is hername) is in her, appearance altogether like an antelope. She has the large,black, oriental eyes, with that peculiar expression in them, which is seenrarely among _Europeans_--even the Italians--and which many of the Turkishwomen give themselves by tinging the eyelid--an art not known out of thatcountry, I believe. This expression she has _naturally_--and somethingmore than this. In short, I cannot describe the effect of this kind ofeye--at least upon me. Her features are regular, and rather aquiline--mouthsmall--skin clear and soft, with a kind of hectic colour--foreheadremarkably good; her hair is of the dark gloss, curl, and colour of LadyJ----'s; her figure is light and pretty, and she is a famoussongstress--scientifically so; her natural voice (in conversation, I mean,)is very sweet; and the _naivete_ of the Venetian dialect is alwayspleasing in the mouth of a woman.

November 23.

You will perceive that my description, which was proceeding with theminuteness of a passport, has been interrupted for several days. In themeantime.

* * * * *

December 5.

Since my former dates, I do not know that I have much to add on thesubject, and, luckily, nothing to take away; for I am more pleased thanever with my Venetian, and begin to feel very serious on that point--somuch so, that I shall be silent.

* * * * *

By way of divertisement, I am studying daily, at an Armenian monastery,the Armenian language. I found that my mind wanted something craggy tobreak upon; and this--as the most difficult thing I could discover herefor an amusement--I have chosen, to torture me into attention. It is arich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble oflearning it. I try, and shall go on;--but I answer for nothing, least ofall for my intentions or my success. There are some very curious MSS. inthe monastery, as well as books; translations also from Greek originals,now lost, and from Persian and Syriac, &c.; besides works of their ownpeople. Four years ago the French instituted an Armenian professorship.Twenty pupils presented themselves on Monday morning, full of noble ardour,ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. They persevered with a courageworthy of the nation and of universal conquest, till Thursday; when_fifteen_ of the _twenty_ succumbed to the six and twentieth letter of thealphabet. It is, to be sure, a Waterloo of an Alphabet--that must be saidfor them. But it is so like these fellows, to do by it as they did bytheir sovereigns--abandon both; to parody the old rhymes, "Take a thingand give a thing"--"Take a king and give a king. They are the worst ofanimals, except their conquerors.

I hear that that H----n is your neighbour, having a living in Derbyshire.You will find him an excellent hearted fellow, as well as one of thecleverest; a little, perhaps, too much japanned by preferment in thechurch and the tuition of youth, as well as inoculated with the disease ofdomestic felicity, besides being overrun with fine feelings about womenand _constancy_ (that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly,receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal;) but,otherwise, a very worthy man, who has lately got a pretty wife, and (Isuppose) a child by this time. Pray remember me to him, and say that Iknow not which to envy most--his neighbourhood, him, or you.

Of Venice I shall say little. You must have seen many descriptions; andthey and they are most of them like. It is a poetical place; and classical,to us, from Shakspeare and Otway. I have not yet sinned against it inverse, nor do I know that I shall do so, having been tuneless since Icrossed the Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the "estro." By theway, I suppose you have seen "Glenarvon." Madame de Stael lent it me toread from Copet last autumn. It seems to me that, if the authoress hadwritten the _truth_, and nothing but the truth--the whole truth--theromance would not only have been more _romantic_, but more entertaining.As for the likeness, the picture can't be good--I did not sit long enough.When you have leisure, let me hear from and of you, believing me ever andtruly yours most affectionately.

B.

P.S. Oh! _your Poem_--is it out? I hope Longman has paid his thousands;but don't you do as H---- T----'s father did, who, having, made money by aquarto tour, became a vinegar merchant; when, lo! his vinegar turned sweet(and be d----d to it) and ruined him. My last letter to you (from Verona)was inclosed to Murray--have you got it? Direct to me _here, posterestante_. There are no English here at present. There were several inSwitzerland--some women; but, except Lady Dalrymple Hamilton, most of themas ugly as virtue--at least those that I saw."

AT VENICE.

_To Mr. Moore._

"Venice, December 24th, 1816.

"I have taken a fit of writing to you, which portends postage--once fromVerona--once from Venice, and again from Venice--_thrice_ that is. Forthis you may thank yourself, for I heard that you complained of mysilence--so here goes for garrulity.

"I trust that you received my other twain of letters. My 'way of life' (or'May of life,' which is it, according to the commentators?)--my 'way oflife' is fallen into great regularity. In the mornings I go over in mygondola to hobble Armenian with the friars of the convent of St. Lazarus,and to help one of them in correcting the English of an English andArmenian grammar which he is publishing. In the evenings I do one of manynothings--either at the theatres, or some of the conversaziones, which arelike our routs, or rather worse, for the women sit in a semicircle by thelady of the mansion, and the men stand about the room. To be sure, thereis one improvement upon ours--instead of lemonade with their ices, theyhand about stiff _rum-punch--punch_, by my palate; and this they think_English_. I would not disabuse them of so agreeable an error--'no, notfor Venice.'

"Last night I was at the Count Governor's, which, of course, comprises thebest society, and is very much like other gregarious meetings in everycountry--as in ours--except that, instead of the Bishop of Winchester, youhave the Patriarch of Venice; and a motley crew of Austrians, Germans,noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a quiz, you may be sure he isa consul. Oh, by the way, I forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell youthat at Milan I met with a countryman of yours--a Colonel ----, a veryexcellent, good-natured fellow, who knows and shows all about Milan, andis, as it were, a native there. He is particularly civil to strangers, andthis is his history--at least an episode of it.

"Six-and-twenty years ago, Colonel ----, then an ensign, being in Italy,fell in love with the Marchesa ----, and she with him. The lady mustbe, at least, twenty years his senior. The war broke out; he returned toEngland, to serve--not his country, for that's Ireland, but England, whichis a different thing; and _she_, heaven knows what she did. In the year1814, the first annunciation of the definitive treaty of peace (andtyranny) was developed to the astonished Milanese by the arrival ofColonel ----, who flinging himself full length at the feet of Madame ----,murmured forth, in half forgotten Irish Italian, eternal vows of indelibleconstancy. The lady screamed, and exclaimed 'Who are you?' The colonelcried, 'What, don't you know me? I am so and so,' &c. &c. &c.; till atlength, the Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence, to reminiscence, throughthe lovers of the intermediate twenty-five years, arrived at last at therecollection of her _povero_ sub-lieutenant.--She then said, 'Was thereever such virtue?' (that was her very word) and, being now a widow, gavehim apartments in her palace, reinstated him in all the rights of wrong,and held him up to the admiring world as a miracle of incontinent fidelity,and the unshaken Abdiel of absence.

"Methinks this is as pretty a moral tale as any of Marmontel's. Here isanother. The same lady, several years ago, made an escapade with a Swede,Count Fersen (the same whom the Stockholm mob quartered and lapidated notvery long since), and they arrived at an Osteria, on the road to Rome orthereabouts. It was a summer evening, and while they were at supper, theywere suddenly regaled by a symphony of fiddles in an adjacent apartment,so prettily played, that, wishing to hear them more distinctly, the countrose, and going into the musical society, said--'Gentlemen, I am sure that,as a company of gallant cavaliers, you will be delighted to show yourskill to a lady, who feels anxious,' &c. &c. The men of harmony were allacquiescence--every instrument was tuned and toned, and, striking up oneof their most ambrosial airs, the whole band followed the count to thelady's apartment. At their head was the first fiddler, who, bowing andfiddling at the same moment, headed his troop, and advanced up the room.Death and discord!--it was the marquess himself, who was on a serenadingparty in the country, while his spouse had run away from town.--The restmay be imagined; but, first of all, the lady tried to persuade him thatshe was there on purpose to meet him, and had chosen this method for anharmonic surprise. So much for this gossip, which amused me when I heardit, and I send it to you, in the hope it may have the like effect. Nowwe'll return to Venice."

"The day after to-morrow (to-morrow being Christmas-day) the Carnivalbegins. I dine with the Countess Albrizzi and a party, and go to the opera.On that day the Phenix (not the Insurance Office, but) the theatre of thatname opens: I have got me a box there for the season, for two reasons, oneof which is, that the music is remarkably good. The Contessa Albrizzi, ofwhom I have made mention, is the De Stael of Venice--not young, but a verylearned, unaffected, good-natured woman, very polite to strangers, and, Ibelieve, not at all dissolute, as most of the women are. She has writtenvery well on the works of Canova, and also a volume of Characters, besidesother printed matter. She is of Corfu, but married a dead Venetian--thatis, dead since he married.

"My flame (my 'Donna,' whom I spoke of in my former epistle, my Marianna)is still my Marianna, and I, her--what she pleases. She is by far theprettiest woman I have seen here, and the most loveable I have met withany where--as well as one of the most singular. I believe I told you therise and progress of our _liaison_ in my former letter. Lest that shouldnot have reached you, I will merely repeat that she is a Venetian,two-and-twenty years old, married to a merchant well to do in the world,and that she has great black oriental eyes, and all the qualities whichher eyes promise. Whether being in love with her has steeled me or not, Ido not know; but I have not seen many other women who seem pretty. Thenobility, in particular, are a sad-looking race--the gentry rather better.And now, what art _thou_ doing?

The other night I saw a new play--and the author. The subject was thesacrifice of Isaac. The play succeeded, and they called for theauthor--according to continental custom--and he presented himself: a nobleVenetian, Mali, or Malapiero by name. Mala was his name, and _pessima_ hisproduction--at least, I thought so, and I ought to know, having read moreor less of five hundred Drury-lane offerings, during my coadjutorship withthe sub-and-super committee.

"When does your Poem of Poems come out? I hear that the E.R. has cut upColeridge's Christabel, and declared against me for praising it. I praisedit, firstly, because I thought well of it; secondly, because Coleridge wasin great distress, and, after doing what little I could for him inessentials, I thought that the public avowal of my good opinion might helphim further, at least with the booksellers. I am very sorry that J---- hasattacked him, because, poor fellow, it will hurt him in mind and pocket.As for me, he's welcome,--I shall never think less of J---- for any thinghe may say against me or mine in future.

"I suppose Murray has sent you, or will send (for I do not know whetherthey are out or no) the poem, or poesies, of mine, of last summer. By themass! they're sublime--'Ganion Coheriza'--gainsay who dares! Pray, let mehear from you, and of you, and, at least, let me know that you havereceived these three letters. Direct, right _here, poste restante_.--"Everand ever, &c."

AN EXECUTION.

_To Mr. Murray_.

"Venice, May 30th, 1817.

"I returned from Rome two days ago, and have received your letter; but nosign nor tidings of the parcel sent through Sir C. Stuart, which youmention. After an interval of months, a packet of 'Tales,' &c. found me atRome; but this is all, and may be all that ever will find me. The postseems to be the only sure conveyance, and _that only for letters_. FromFlorence I sent you a poem on Tasso, and from Rome the new Third Act of'Manfred,' and by Dr. Polidori two portraits for my sister. I left Romeand made a rapid journey home. You will continue to direct here as usual.Mr. Hobhouse is gone to Naples; I should have run down there too for aweek, but for the quantity of English whom I heard of there. I preferhating them at a distance; unless an earthquake, or a good real irruptionof Vesuvius, were ensured to reconcile me to their vicinity.

* * * * *

"The day before I left Rome I saw three robbers guillotined. Theceremony--including the _masqued_ priests; the half-naked executioners;the bandaged criminals; the black Christ and his banner; the scaffold; thesoldiery; the slow procession, and the quick rattle and heavy fall of theaxe; the splash of the blood, and the ghastliness of the exposed heads--isaltogether more impressive than the vulgar and ungentlemanly dirty 'newdrop,' and dog-like agony of infliction upon the sufferers of the Englishsentence. Two of these men behaved calmly enough, but the first of thethree died with great terror and reluctance. What was very horrible, hewould not lie down; then his neck was too large for the aperture, and thepriest was obliged to drown his exclamations by still louder exhortations.The head was off before the eye could trace the blow; but from an attemptto draw back the head, notwithstanding it was held forward by the hair,the first head was cut off close to the ears: the other two were taken offmore cleanly. It is better than the oriental way, and (I should think)than the axe of our ancestors. The pain seems little, and yet the effectto the spectator, and the preparation to the criminal, is very strikingand chilling. The first turned me quite hot and thirsty, and made me shakeso that I could hardly hold the opera-glass, (I was close, but wasdetermined to see, as one should see every thing, once, with attention;)the second and third (which shows how dreadfully soon things growindifferent,) I am ashamed to say, had no effect on me as a horror, thoughI would have saved them if I could.

"Yours, &c."

PORSON.

"I remember to have seen Porson at Cambridge, in the hall of our college,and in private parties, but not frequently; and I never can recollect himexcept as drunk or brutal, and generally both: I mean in an evening, forin the hall, he dined at the Dean's table, and I at the Vice-master's, sothat I was not near him; and he then and there appeared sober in hisdemeanour, nor did I ever hear of excess or outrage on his part inpublic,--commons, college, or chapel; but I have seen him in a privateparty of under-graduates, many of them freshmen and strangers, take up apoker to one of them, and heard him use language as blackguard as hisaction. I have seen Sheridan drunk, too, with all the world; but hisintoxication was that of Bacchus, and Porson's that of Silenus. Of all thedisgusting brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was the mostbestial, as far as the few times that I saw him went which were only atWilliam Bankes's (the Nubian discoverer's) rooms. I saw him once go awayin a rage, because nobody knew the name of the 'Cobbler of Messina,'insulting their ignorance with the most vulgar terms of reprobation. Hewas tolerated in this state amongst the young men for his talents, as theTurks think a madman inspired, and bear with him. He used to recite, orrather vomit pages of all languages, and could hiccup Greek like a Helot;and certainly Sparta never shocked her children with a grosser exhibitionthan this man's intoxication.

"I perceive, in the book you sent me, a long account of him, which is verysavage. I cannot judge, as I never saw him sober, except in _hall_ orcombination room; and then I was never near enough to hear, and hardly tosee him. Of his drunken deportment, I can be sure, because I saw it."

THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI.

It was about the time (1819) when the foregoing letter was written, andwhen, like the first return of reason after intoxication, a fullconsciousness of some of the evils of his late libertine course of lifehad broken upon him, that an attachment differing altogether, both induration and devotion, from any of those that, since the dream of hisboyhood, had inspired him, gained an influence over his mind which lastedthrough his few remaining years; and, undeniably wrong and immoral (evenallowing for the Italian estimate of such frailties) as was the nature ofthe connexion to which this attachment led, we can hardly perhaps,--takinginto account the far worse wrong from which it rescued and preservedhim,--consider it otherwise than an event fortunate both for hisreputation and happiness.

The fair object of this last, and (with one signal exception) only _real_love of his whole life, was a young Romagnese lady, the daughter of CountGamba, of Ravenna, and married, but a short time before Lord Byron firstmet with her, to an old and wealthy widower, of the same city, CountGuiccioli. Her husband had in early life been the friend of Alfieri, andhad distinguished himself by his zeal in promoting the establishment of aNational Theatre, in which the talents of Alfieri and his own wealth wereto be combined. Notwithstanding his age, and a character, as it appears,by no means reputable, his great opulence rendered him an object ofambition among the mothers of Ravenna, who, according to the too frequentmaternal practice, were seen vying with each other in attracting so rich apurchaser for their daughters, and the young Teresa Gamba, then onlyeighteen, and just emancipated from a convent, was the selected victim.

The first time Lord Byron had ever seen this lady was in the autumn of1818, when she made her appearance, soon after her marriage, at the houseof the Countess Albrizzi, in all the gaiety of bridal array, and the firstdelight of exchanging a convent for the world. At this time, however, noacquaintance ensued between them;--it was not till the spring of thepresent year that, at an evening party of Madame Benzoni's, they wereintroduced to each other. The love that sprung out of this meeting wasinstantaneous and mutual,--though with the usual disproportion ofsacrifice between the parties; such an event being, to the man, but one ofthe many scenes of life, while, with woman, it generally constitutes thewhole drama. The young Italian found herself suddenly inspired with apassion, of which, till that moment, her mind could not have formed theleast idea;--she had thought of love but as an amusement, and now becameits slave. If at the outset, too, less slow to be won than an Englishwoman,no sooner did she begin to understand the full despotism of the passionthan her heart shrunk from it as something terrible, and she would haveescaped, but that the chain was already around her.

No words, however, can describe so simply and feelingly as her own, thestrong impression which their first meeting left upon her mind:--

"I became acquainted," says Madame Guiccioli, "with Lord Byron in theApril of 1819:--he was introduced to me at Venice, by the Countess Benzoni,at one of that lady's parties. This introduction, which had so muchinfluence over the lives of us both, took place contrary to our wishes,and had been permitted by us only from courtesy. For myself, more fatiguedthan usual that evening on account of the late hours they keep at Venice,I went with great repugnance to this party, and purely in obedience toCount Guiccioli. Lord Byron, too, who was averse to forming newacquaintances,--alleging that he had entirely renounced all attachments,and was unwilling any more to expose himself to their consequences,--onbeing requested by the Countess Benzoni to allow himself to be presentedto me, refused, and, at last, only assented from a desire to oblige her.

"His noble and exquisitely beautiful countenance, the tone of his voice,his manners, the thousand enchantments that surrounded him, rendered himso different and so superior a being to any whom I had hitherto seen, thatit was impossible he should not have left the most profound impressionupon me. From that evening, during the whole of my subsequent stay atVenice, we met every day."

* * * * *

About the middle of April, Madame Guiccioli had been obliged to quitVenice with her husband. Having several houses on the road from Venice toRavenna, it was his habit to stop at these mansions, one after the other,in his journeys between the two cities; and from all these places theenamoured young Countess now wrote to her lover, expressing, in the mostpassionate and pathetic terms, her despair at leaving him. So utterly,indeed, did this feeling overpower her, that three times, in the course ofher first day's journey, she was seized with fainting-fits. In one of herletters, which I saw when at Venice, dated, if I recollect right, from "CaZen, Cavanella di Po," she tells him that the solitude of this place,which she had before found irksome, was, now that one sole idea occupiedher mind, become dear and welcome to her, and promises that, as soon asshe arrives at Ravenna, "she will, according to his wish, avoid allgeneral society, and devote herself to reading, music, domesticoccupations, riding on horseback,--every thing, in short, that she knew hewould most like." What a change for a young and simple girl, who, but afew weeks before, had thought only of society and the world, but who nowsaw no other happiness but in the hope of becoming worthy, by seclusionand self-instruction, of the illustrious object of her love!

On leaving this place, she was attacked with a dangerous illness on theroad, and arrived half dead at Ravenna; nor was it found possible torevive or comfort her till an assurance was received from Lord Byron,expressed with all the fervour of real passion, that, in the course of theensuing month, he would pay her a visit. Symptoms of consumption, broughton by her state of mind, had already shown themselves; and, in addition tothe pain which this separation had caused her, she was also suffering muchgrief from the loss of her mother, who, at this time, died in giving birthto her twentieth child. Towards the latter end of May she wrote toacquaint Lord Byron that, having prepared all her relatives and friends toexpect him, he might now, she thought, venture to make his appearance atRavenna. Though, on the lady's account, hesitating as to the prudence ofsuch a step, he, in obedience to her wishes, on the 2nd of June, set outfrom La Mira (at which place he had again taken a villa for the summer),and proceeded towards Romagna.

While he was lingering irresolute at Bologna, the Countess Guiccioli hadbeen attacked with an intermittent fever, the violence of which combiningwith the absence of a confidential person to whom she had been in thehabit of intrusting her letters, prevented her from communicating with him.At length, anxious to spare him the disappointment of finding her so illon his arrival, she had begun a letter, requesting that he would remain atBologna till the visit to which she looked forward should bring her therealso; and was in the act of writing, when a friend came in to announce thearrival of an English lord in Ravenna. She could not doubt for an instantthat it was her noble lover; and he had, in fact, notwithstanding hisdeclaration to Mr. Hoppner that it was his intention to return to Veniceimmediately, wholly altered this resolution before the letter announcingit was despatched,--the following words being written on the outsidecover:--"I am just setting off for Ravenna, June 8, 1819.--I changed mymind this morning, and decided to go on."

The reader, however, shall have Madame Guiccioli's own account of theseevents, which, fortunately for the interest of my narration, I am enabledto communicate:--

On my departure from Venice, he had promised to come and see me at Ravenna.Dante's tomb, the classical pine wood, the relics of antiquity which areto be found in that place, afforded a sufficient pretext for me to invitehim to come, and for him to accept my invitation. He came, in fact, in themonth of June, arriving at Ravenna on the day of the festival of theCorpus Domini; while, I attacked by a consumptive complaint, which had itsorigin from the moment of my quitting Venice, appeared on the point ofdeath. The arrival of a distinguished foreigner at Ravenna, a town soremote from the routes ordinarily followed by travellers, was an eventwhich gave rise to a good deal of conversation. His motives for such avisit became the subject of discussion, and these he himself afterwardsinvoluntarily divulged; for having made some inquiries with a view topaying me a visit, and being told that it was unlikely that he would eversee me again, as I was at the point of death, he replied, if such were thecase, he hoped that he should die also; which circumstance, being repeatedrevealed the object of his journey. Count Guiccioli, having beenacquainted with Lord Byron at Venice, went to visit him now, and in thehope that his presence might amuse, and be of some use to me in the statein which I then found myself, invited him to call upon me. He came the dayfollowing. It is impossible to describe the anxiety he showed,--thedelicate attentions that he paid me. For a long time he had perpetuallymedical books in his hands; and not trusting my physicians, he obtainedpermission from Count Guiccioli to send for a very clever physician, afriend of his, in whom he placed great confidence. The attentions of theProfessor Aglietti (for so this celebrated Italian was called), togetherwith tranquillity, and the inexpressible happiness which I experienced inLord Byron's society, had so good an effect on my health, that only twomonths afterwards I was able to accompany my husband in a tour he wasobliged to make to visit his various estates.

* * * * *

In the separation that had now taken place (1820) between Count Guiccioliand his wife, it was one of the conditions that the lady should, in future,reside under the paternal roof:--in consequence of which, Madame Guiccioli,on the 16th of July, left Ravenna and retired to a villa belonging toCount Gamba, about fifteen miles distant from that city. Here Lord Byronoccasionally visited her--about once or twice, perhaps, in themonth--passing the rest of his time in perfect solitude. To a mind likehis, whose world was within itself, such a mode of life could have beenneither new nor unwelcome; but to the woman, young and admired, whoseacquaintance with the world and its pleasures had but just begun, thischange was, it must be confessed, most sudden and trying. Count Guiccioliwas rich, and, as a young wife, she had gained absolute power over him.She was proud, and his station placed her among the highest in Ravenna.They had talked of travelling to Naples, Florence, Paris,--and everyluxury, in short, that wealth could command was at her disposal.

All this she now voluntarily and determinedly sacrificed for Byron. Hersplendid home abandoned--her relations all openly at war with her--herkind father but tolerating, from fondness, what he could not approve--shewas now, upon a pittance of 200_l_. a year, living apart from the world,her sole occupation the task of educating herself for her illustriouslover, and her sole reward the few brief glimpses of him which their nowrestricted intercourse allowed. Of the man who could inspire and keepalive so devoted a feeling, it may be pronounced with confidence that hecould _not_ have been such as, in the freaks of his own wayward humour, herepresented himself; while, on the lady's side, the whole history of herattachment goes to prove how completely an Italian woman, whether bynature or from her social position, is led to invert the usual course ofsuch frailties among ourselves, and, weak in resisting the first impulsesof passion, to reserve the whole strength of her character for a displayof constancy and devotedness afterwards.

* * * * *

MEETING OF LORD BYRON AND MR. MOORE AT VENICE.

It was my good fortune, at this period, (1819) in the course of a shortand hasty tour through the north of Italy, to pass five or six days withLord Byron at Venice. I had written to him on my way thither to announcemy coming, and to say how happy it would make me could I tempt him toaccompany me as far as Rome.

Having parted, at Milan, with Lord John Russell, whom I had accompaniedfrom England, and whom I was to rejoin, after a short visit to Rome, atGenoa, I made purchase of a small and (as it soon proved) crazy travellingcarriage, and proceeded alone on my way to Venice. My time being limited,I stopped no longer at the intervening places than was sufficient to hurryover their respective wonders, and, leaving Padua at noon on the 8th ofOctober, I found myself, about two o'clock, at the door of my friend'svilla, at La Mira. He was but just up, and in his bath; but the servanthaving announced my arrival, he returned a message that, if I would waittill he was dressed, he would accompany me to Venice. The interval Iemployed in conversing with my old acquaintance, Fletcher, and in viewing,under his guidance, some of the apartments of the villa.

It was not long before Lord Byron himself made his appearance, and thedelight I felt in meeting him once more, after a separation of so manyyears, was not a little heightened by observing that his pleasure was, tothe full, as great, while it was rendered doubly touching by the evidentrarity of such meetings to him of late, and the frank outbreak ofcordiality and gaiety with which he gave way to his feelings. It would beimpossible, indeed, to convey to those who have not, at some time or other,felt the charm of his manner, any idea of what it could be when under theinfluence of such pleasurable excitement as it was most flatteringlyevident he experienced at this moment.

I was a good deal struck, however, by the alteration that had taken placein his personal appearance. He had grown fatter both in person and face,and the latter had most suffered by the change, having lost, by theenlargement of the features, some of that refined and spiritualized lookthat had, in other times, distinguished it. The addition of whiskers, too,which he had not long before been induced to adopt, from hearing that someone had said he had a "faccia di musico," as well as the length to whichhis hair grew down on his neck, and the rather foreign air of his coat andcap,--all combined to produce that dissimilarity to his former self I hadobserved in him. He was still, however, eminently handsome; and, inexchange for whatever his features might have lost of their high, romanticcharacter, they had become more fitted for the expression of that arch,waggish wisdom, that Epicurean play of humour, which he had shown to beequally inherent in his various and prodigally gifted nature; while, bythe somewhat increased roundness of the contours, the resemblance of hisfinely formed mouth and chin to those of the Belvedere Apollo had becomestill more striking.

His breakfast, which I found he rarely took before three or four o'clockin the afternoon, was speedily despatched,--his habit being to eat itstanding, and the meal in general consisting of one or two raw eggs, a cupof tea without either milk or sugar, and a bit of dry biscuit. Before wetook our departure, he presented me to the Countess Guiccioli, who was atthis time living under the same roof with him at La Mira; and who, with astyle of beauty singular in an Italian, as being fair-complexioned anddelicate, left an impression upon my mind, during this our first shortinterview, of intelligence and amiableness such as all that I have sinceknown or heard of her has but served to confirm.

We now started together, Lord Byron and myself, in my little Milanesevehicle, for Fusina,--his portly gondolier Tita, in a rich livery and mostredundant mustachios, having seated himself on the front of the carriage,to the no small trial of its strength, which had already once given way,even under my own weight, between Verona and Vicenza. On our arrival atFusina, my noble friend, from his familiarity with all the details of theplace, had it in his power to save me both trouble and expense in thedifferent arrangements relative to the custom-house, remise, &c. and thegood-natured assiduity with which he bustled about in despatching thesematters gave me an opportunity of observing, in his use of the infirm limb,a much greater degree of activity than I had ever before, except insparring, witnessed.

As we proceeded across the Lagoon in his gondola, the sun was just setting,and it was an evening such as Romance would have chosen for a first sightof Venice, rising "with her tiara of bright towers" above the wave; whileto complete, as might be imagined, the solemn interest of the scene, Ibeheld it in company with him who had lately given a new life to itsglories, and sung of that fair City of the Sea thus grandly:

"I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanters wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles."

But whatever emotions the first sight of such a scene might, under othercircumstances, have inspired me with, the mood of mind in which I nowviewed it was altogether the very reverse of what might have been expected.The exuberant gaiety of my companion, and the recollections,--any thingbut romantic,--into which our conversation wandered, put at oncecompletely to flight all poetical and historical associations; and ourcourse was, I am almost ashamed to say, one of uninterrupted merriment andlaughter till we found ourselves at the steps of my friend's palazzo onthe Grand Canal. All that had ever happened, of gay or ridiculous, duringour London life together,--his scrapes and my lecturings,--our jointadventures with the Bores and Blues, the two great enemies, as he alwayscalled them, of London happiness,--our joyous nights together at Watier's,Kinnaird's, &c. and "that d--d supper of Rancliffe's which _ought_ to havebeen a dinner,"--all was passed rapidly in review between us, and with aflow of humour and hilarity, on his side, of which it would have beendifficult, even for persons far graver than I can pretend to be, not tohave caught the contagion.

LORD BYRON'S PARSIMONY.

It is, indeed, certain, that he had at this time (1819) taken up the whim(for it hardly deserves a more serious name) of minute and constantwatchfulness over his expenditure; and, as most usually happens, it waswith the increase of his means that this increased sense of the value ofmoney came. The first symptom I saw of this new fancy of his was theexceeding joy which he manifested on my presenting to him a rouleau oftwenty Napoleons, which Lord K----d, to whom he had, on some occasion,lent that sum, had entrusted me with, at Milan, to deliver into his hands.With the most joyous and diverting eagerness, he tore open the paper, and,in counting over the sum, stopped frequently to congratulate himself onthe recovery of it.

Of his household frugalities I speak but on the authority of others; butit is not difficult to conceive that, with a restless spirit like his,which delighted always in having something to contend with, and which, buta short time before, "for want," as he said, "of something craggy to breakupon," had tortured itself with the study of the Armenian language, heshould, in default of all better excitement, find a sort of stir andamusement in the task of contesting, inch by inch, every encroachment ofexpense, and endeavouring to suppress what he himself calls

"That climax of all earthly ills, The inflammation of our weekly bills."

In truth, his constant recurrence to the praise of avarice in Don Juan,and the humorous zest with which he delights to dwell on it, shows hownew-fangled, as well as far from serious, was his adoption of this "goodold-gentlemanly vice." In the same spirit he had, a short time before myarrival at Venice, established a hoarding-box, with a slit in the lid,into which he occasionally put sequins, and, at stated periods, opened itto contemplate his treasures. His own ascetic style of living enabled him,as far as himself was concerned, to gratify this taste for enonomy in noordinary degree,--his daily bill of fare, when the Margarita was hiscompanion, consisting, I have been assured, of but four beccafichi ofwhich the Fornarina eat three leaving even him hungry.

HIS MEMOIRS.

(1819)--A short time before dinner he left the room, and in a minute ortwo returned, carrying in his hand a white leather bag. "Look here," hesaid, holding it up,--"this would be worth something to Murray, though_you_, I dare say, would not give sixpence for it." "What is it?" Iasked.--"My Life and Adventures," he answered. On hearing this, I raisedmy hands in a gesture of wonder. "It is not a thing," he continued, "thatcan be published during my lifetime, but you may have it if youlike--there, do whatever you please with it." In taking the bag, andthanking him most warmly, I added, "This will make a nice legacy for mylittle Tom, who shall astonish the latter days of the nineteenth centurywith it." He then added, "You may show it to any of our friends you maythink worthy of it:"--and this is nearly word for word, the whole of whatpassed between us on the subject.

_To Mr. Moore._

"January 2nd, 1820.

"My Dear Moore,

"'To-day it is my wedding-day, And all the folks would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.'

Or _thus_--

"Here's a happy new year! but with reason I beg you'll permit me to say-- Wish me _many_ returns of the _season_, But as _few_ as you please of the _day_.

"My this present writing is to direct you that, _if she chooses_, she maysee the MS. Memoir in your possession. I wish her to have fair play, inall cases, even though it will not be published till after my decease. Forthis purpose, it were but just that Lady B. should know what is their saidof her and hers, that she may have full power to remark on or respond toany part or parts, as may seem fitting to herself. This is fair dealing, Ipresume, in all events.

"To change the subject, are you in England? I send you an epitaph forCastlereagh.

* * * * *

Another for Pitt--

"With death doom'd to grapple Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel Now lies in the Abbey.

"The gods seem to have made me poetical this day--

"In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, Will. Cobbett has done well: You visit him on earth again, He'll visit you in hell.

Or--

"You come to him on earth again, He'll go with you to hell.

"Pray let not these versiculi go forth with _my_ name, except among theinitiated, because my friend H. has foamed into a reformer, and, I greatlyfear, will subside into Newgate; since the Honourable House, according toGalignani's Reports of Parliamentary Debates, are menacing a prosecutionto a pamphlet of his. I shall be very sorry to hear of any thing but goodfor him, particularly in these miserable squabbles; but these are thenatural effects of taking a part in them."

SIR HUMPHRY DAVY.

"Ravenna, May 8, 1820.

"Sir Humphry Davy was here last fortnight, and I was in his company in thehouse of a very pretty Italian lady of rank, who, by way of displaying herlearning in presence of the great chemist, then describing his fourteenthascension of Mount Vesuvius, asked 'if there was not a similar volcano in_Ireland_?' My only notion of an Irish volcano consisted of the lake ofKillarney, which I naturally conceived her to mean; but on second thoughtsI divined that she alluded to _Ice_land and to Hecla--and so it proved,though she sustained her volcanic topography for some time with all theamiable pertinacity of 'the feminie.' She soon after turned to me, andasked me various questions about Sir Humphry's philosophy, and I explainedas well as an oracle his skill in gasen safety lamps, and ungluing thePompeian MSS. 'But what do you call him?' said she. 'A great chemist,'quoth I. 'What can he do?' repeated the lady 'Almost any thing,' said I.'Oh, then, mio caro, do pray beg him to give me something to dye myeyebrows black. I have tried a thousand things, and the colours all comeoff; and besides, they don't grow. Can't he invent something to make themgrow?' All this with the greatest earnestness; and what you will besurprised at, she is neither ignorant nor a fool, but really well educatedand clever. But they speak like children, when first out of their convents;and, after all, this is better than an English bluestocking."

POPE--AND OTHER MATTERS.

_To Mr. Moore._

"Ravenna, July 5th, 1821.

"How could you suppose that I ever would allow any thing that _could_ besaid on your account to weigh with _me_? I only regret that Bowles had not_said_ that you were the writer of that note until afterwards, when out hecomes with it, in a private letter to Murray, which Murray sends to me.D--n the controversy!

"D--m Twizzle, D--n the bell, And d--n the fool who rung it--Well! From all such plagues I'll quickly be deliver'd.

"I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in England (I never sawher) who says she is given over of a decline, but could not go out of theworld without thanking me for the delight which my poesy for several years,&c. &c. &c. It is signed simply N.N.A., and has not a word of 'cant' orpreachment in it upon _any_ opinions. She merely says that she is dying,and that as I had contributed so highly to her existing pleasure, shethought that she might say so, begging me to _burn_ her _letter_--which,by the way, I can _not_ do, as I look upon such a letter, in suchcircumstances, as better than a diploma from Gottingen. I once had aletter from Drontheim, in _Norway_ (but not from a dying woman) in verse,on the same score of gratulation. These are the things which make one attimes believe oneself a poet. But if I must believe that ----, andsuch fellows, are poets, also, it is better to be out of the corps.

"I am now in the fifth act of 'Foscari,' being the third tragedy in twelvemonths, besides _proses_; so you perceive that I am not at all idle. Andare you, too, busy? I doubt that your life at Paris draws too much uponyour time, which is a pity. Can't you divide your day, so as to combineboth? I have had plenty of all sorts of worldly business on my hands lastyear--and yet it is not so difficult to give a few hours to the _Muses_.This sentence is so like ---- that-- "Ever, &c."

FROM "DETACHED THOUGHTS."

"What a strange thing is life and man! Were I to present myself at thedoor of the house where my daughter now is, the door would be shut in myface--unless (as is not impossible) I knocked down the porter; and if Ihad gone in that year (and perhaps now) to Drontheim (the furthest town inNorway), or into Holstein, I should have been received with open arms intothe mansion of strangers and foreigners, attached to me by no tie but bythat of mind and rumour.

"As far as _fame_ goes, I have had my share: it has indeed been leavenedby other human contingencies, and this in a greater degree than hasoccurred to most literary men of a decent rank of life; but, on the whole,I take it that such equipoise is the condition of humanity."

"A young American, named Coolidge, called on me not many months ago. Hewas intelligent, very handsome, and not more than twenty years old,according to appearances; a little romantic, but that sits well upon youth,and mighty fond of poesy, as may be suspected from his approaching me inmy cavern. He brought me a message from an old servant of my family (JoeMurray), and told me that _he_ (Mr. Coolidge) had obtained a copy of mybust from Thorwaldsen, at Rome, to send to America. I confess I was moreflattered by this young enthusiasm of a solitary Trans-Atlantic traveller,than if they had decreed me a statue in the Paris Pantheon (I have seenemperors and demagogues cast down from their pedestals even in my own time,and Grattan's name razed from the street called after him in Dublin); Isay that I was more flattered by it, because it was _single, unpolitical_,and was without motive or ostentation--the pure and warm feeling of a boyfor the poet he admired. It must have been expensive, though;--_I_ wouldnot pay the price of a Thorwaldsen bust for any human head and shoulders,except Napoleon's, or my children's, or some '_absurd womankind's_,' asMonkbarn's calls them--or my sister's. If asked _why_, then, I sate for myown?--Answer, that it was at the particular request of J.C. Hobhouse, Esq.,and for no one else. A _picture_ is a different matter;--every body sitsfor their picture;--but a bust looks like putting up pretensions topermanency, and smacks something of a hankering for public fame ratherthan private remembrance.

"Whenever an American requests to see me (which is not unfrequently) Icomply, firstly, because I respect a people who acquired their freedom bytheir firmness without excess; and, secondly, because these Trans-Atlanticvisits, 'few and-far between' make me feel as if talking with posterityfrom the other side of the Styx. In a century or two, the new English andSpanish Atlantides will be masters of the old countries, in allprobability, as Greece and Europe overcame their mother Asia in the olderor earlier ages, as they are called."

EXTRACT FROM A DIARY OF LORD BYRON, 1821.

"Ravenna, January 12th, 1821.

"I have found out the seal cut on Murray's letter. It is meant for WalterScott--or _Sir_ Walter--he is the first poet knighted since Sir RichardBlackmore. But it does not do him justice. Scott's--particularly when herecites---is a very intelligent countenance, and this seal says nothing.

"Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer of the day. His novels are anew literature in themselves, and his poetry as good as any--if not better(only on an erroneous system)--and only ceased to be so popular, becausethe vulgar learned were tired of hearing 'Aristides called the Just,' andScott the Best, and ostracised him.

"I like him, too, for his manliness of character, for the extremepleasantness of his conversation, and his good-nature towards myself,personally. May he prosper!--for he deserves it. I know no reading towhich I fall with such alacrity as a work of W. Scott's. I shall give theseal, with his bust on it, to Madame la Contesse G. this evening, who willbe curious to have the effigies of a man so celebrated.

"January 20th, 1821.

"To-morrow is my birthday--that is to say, at twelve o' the clock,midnight, i.e. in twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty and threeyears of age!!!--and I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at havinglived so long, and to so little purpose.

"It is three minutes past twelve.--''Tis the middle of night by the castleclock, and I am now thirty-three!

'Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur anni;--'

but I don't regret them so much for what I have done, as for what I mighthave done.

"Through life's road, so dim and dirty, I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty. What have these years left to me? Nothing--except thirty-three.

"January 22nd, 1821.

1821. Here lies interred in the Eternity of the Past, from whence there is no Resurrection for the Days--whatever there may be for the Dust-- the Thirty-Third Year of an ill-spent Life, Which, after a lingering disease of many months, sunk into a lethargy, and expired, January 22nd, 1821, A.D. Leaving a successor Inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its Existence."

LORD CLARE.

On the road to Bologna he had met with his early and dearest friend, LordClare, and the following description of their short interview is given inhis "Detached Thoughts."

"Pisa, November 5th, 1821.

"'There is a strange coincidence sometimes in the little things of thisworld, Sancho,' says Sterne in a letter (if I mistake not,) and so I haveoften found it.

"Page 128, article 91, of this collection, I had alluded to my friend LordClare in terms such as my feelings suggested. About a week or twoafterwards, I met him on the road between Imola and Bologna, after nothaving met for seven or eight years. He was abroad in 1814, and came homejust as I set out in 1816.

"This meeting annihilated for a moment all the years between the presenttime and the days of _Harrow_. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, likerising from the grave, to me. Clare too was much agitated--more in_appearance_ than myself; for I could feel his heart beat to his fingers'ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own which made me think so.He told me that I should find a note from him left at Bologna. I did. Wewere obliged to part for our different journeys, he for Rome, I for Pisa,but with the promise to meet again in spring. We were but five minutestogether, and on the public road; but I hardly recollect an hour of myexistence which could be weighed against them. He had heard that I wascoming on, and had left his letter for me at Bologna, because the peoplewith whom he was travelling could not wait longer.

"Of all I have ever known, he has always been the least altered in everything from the excellent qualities and kind affections which attached meto him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought it possible forsociety (or the world, as it is called) to leave a being with so little ofthe leaven of bad passions.

"I do not speak from personal experience only, but from all I have everheard of him from others, during absence and distance."

On the subject of intimacies formed by Lord Byron, not only at the periodof which we are speaking, but throughout his whole life, it would bedifficult to advance any thing more judicious, or more demonstrative of atrue knowledge of his character, than is to be found in the followingremarks of one who had studied him with her whole heart, who had learnedto regard him with the eyes of good sense, as well as of affection, andwhose strong love, in short, was founded upon a basis the most creditableboth to him and herself,--the being able to understand him.[1]

[1] "My poor Zimmerman, who now will understand thee?"--such was the touching speech addressed to Zimmerman by his wife, on her deathbed, and there is implied in these few words all that a man of morbid sensibility must be dependent for upon the tender and self-forgetting tolerance of the woman with whom he is united.

"We continued in Pisa even more rigorously to absent ourselves fromsociety. However, as there were a good many English in Pisa, he could notavoid becoming acquainted with various friends of Shelley, among whichnumber was Mr. Medwin. They followed him in his rides, dined with him, andfelt themselves happy, of course, in the apparent intimacy in which theylived with so renowned a man; but not one of them was admitted to any partof his friendship, which, indeed, he did not easily accord. He had a greataffection for Shelley, and a great esteem for his character and talents;but he was not his friend in the most extensive sense of that word.Sometimes, when speaking of his friends and of friendship, as also of love,and of every other noble emotion of the soul, his expressions mightinspire doubts concerning his sentiments and the goodness of his heart.The feeling of the moment regulated his speech, and besides, he liked toplay the part of singularity,--and sometimes worse, more especially withthose whom he suspected of endeavouring to make discoveries as to his realcharacter; but it was only mean minds and superficial observers that couldbe deceived in him. It was necessary to consider his actions to perceivethe contradiction they bore to his words: it was necessary to be witnessof certain moments, during which unforeseen and involuntary emotion forcedhim to give himself entirely up to his feelings; and whoever beheld himthen, became aware of the stores of sensibility and goodness of which hisnoble heart was full.

"Among the many occasions I had of seeing him thus overpowered, I shallmention one relative to his feelings of friendship. A few days beforeleaving Pisa, we were one evening seated in the garden of the PalazzoLanfranchi. A soft melancholy was spread over his countenance;--herecalled to mind the events of his life; compared them with his presentsituation and with that which it might have been if his affection for mehad not caused him to remain in Italy, saying things which would have madeearth a paradise for me, but that even then a presentiment that I shouldlose all this happiness tormented me. At this moment a servant announcedMr. Hobhouse. The slight shade of melancholy diffused over Lord Byron'sface gave instant place to the liveliest joy; but it was so great, that italmost deprived him of strength. A fearful paleness came over his cheeks,and his eyes were filled with tears as he embraced his friend. His emotionwas so great that he was forced to sit down.

"Lord Clare's visit also occasioned him extreme delight. He had a greataffection for Lord Clare, and was very happy during the short visit thathe paid him at Leghorn. The day on which they separated was a melancholyone for Lord Byron. 'I have a presentiment that I shall never see himmore,' he said, and his eyes filled with tears. The same melancholy cameover him during the first weeks that succeeded to Lord Clare's departure,whenever his conversation happened to fall upon this friend."

Of his feelings on the death of his daughter Allegra, this lady gives thefollowing account:--"On the occasion also of the death of his naturaldaughter, I saw in his grief the excess of paternal tenderness. Hisconduct towards this child was always that of a fond father; but no onewould have guessed from his expressions that he felt this affection forher. He was dreadfully agitated by the first intelligence of her illness;and when afterwards that of her death arrived, I was obliged to fulfil themelancholy task of communicating it to him. The memory of that frightfulmoment is stamped indelibly on my mind. For several evenings he had notleft his house, I therefore went to him. His first question was relativeto the courier he had despatched for tidings of his daughter, and whosedelay disquieted him. After a short interval of suspense, with everycaution which my own sorrow suggested, I deprived him of all hope of thechild's recovery. 'I understand,' said he,--'it is enough, say no more.' Amortal paleness spread itself over his face, his strength failed him, andhe sunk into a seat. His look was fixed, and the expression such that Ibegan to fear for his reason; he did not shed a tear, and his countenancemanifested so hopeless, so profound, so sublime a sorrow, that at themoment he appeared a being of a nature superior to humanity. He remainedimmovable in the same attitude for an hour, and no consolation which Iendeavoured to afford him seemed to reach his ears, far less his heart.But enough of this sad episode, on which I cannot linger, even after thelapse of so many years, without renewing in my own heart the awfulwretchedness of that day. He desired to be left alone, and I was obligedto leave him. I found him on the following morning tranquillized, and withan expression of religious resignation on his features. 'She is morefortunate than we are,' he said; 'besides her position in the world wouldscarcely have allowed her to be happy. It is God's will--let us mention itno more.' And from that day he would never pronounce her name; but becamemore anxious when he spoke of Ada,--so much so as to disquiet himself whenthe usual accounts sent him were for a post or two delayed."

The melancholy death of poor Shelley, which happened, as we have seen,also during this period, seems to have affected Lord Byron's mind lesswith grief for the actual loss of his friend than with bitter indignationagainst those who had, through life, so grossly misrepresented him; andnever certainly was there an instance where the supposed absence of allreligion in an individual was assumed so eagerly as an excuse for theentire absence of truth and charity in judging him. Though neverpersonally acquainted with Mr. Shelley, I can join freely with those whomost loved him in admiring the various excellencies of his heart andgenius, and lamenting the too early doom that robbed us of the maturefruits of both. His short life had been, like his poetry, a sort of bright,erroneous dream,--false in the general principles on which it proceeded,though beautiful and attaching in most of the details. Had full time beenallowed for the "over-light" of his imagination to have been tempered downby the judgment which, in him, was still in reserve, the world at largewould have been taught to pay that high homage to his genius which thoseonly who saw what he was capable of can now be expected to accord to it.

It was about this time that Mr. Cowell, paying a visit to Lord Byron atGenoa, was told by him that some friends of Mr. Shelley, sitting togetherone evening, had seen that gentleman, distinctly, as they thought, walk,into a little wood at Lerici, when at the same moment, as they afterwardsdiscovered, he was far away, in quite a different direction. "This," addedLord Byron, in a low, awe-struck tone of voice, "was but ten days beforepoor Shelley died."

HIS SERVICE IN THE GREEK CAUSE.

With that thanklessness which too often waits on disinterested actions, ithas been some times tauntingly remarked, and in quarters from whence amore generous judgment might be expected, that, after all, Lord Byroneffected but little for Greece: as if much _could_ be effected by a singleindividual, and in so short a time, for a cause which, fought as it hasbeen almost incessantly through the six years since his death, hasrequired nothing less than the intervention of all the great powers ofEurope to give it a chance of success, and, even so, has not yet succeeded.That Byron himself was under no delusion, as to the importance of his ownsolitary aid--that he knew, in a struggle like this, there must be thesame prodigality of means towards one great end as is observable in thestill grander operations of nature, where individuals are as nothing inthe tide of events--that such was his, at once, philosophic and melancholyview of his own sacrifices, I have, I trust, clearly shown. But that,during this short period of action, he did not do well and wisely all thatman could achieve in the time, and under the circumstances, is anassertion which the noble facts here recorded fully and triumphantlydisprove. He knew that, placed as he was, his measures, to be wise, mustbe prospective, and from the nature of the seeds thus sown by him, thebenefits that were to be expected must be judged. To reconcile the rudechiefs to the government and to each other;--to infuse a spirit ofhumanity, by his example, into their warfare;--to prepare the way for theemployment of the expected loan, in a manner most calculated to call forththe resources of the country--to put the fortifications of Missolonghi insuch a state of repair as might, and eventually _did_, render it proofagainst the besieger;--to prevent those infractions of neutrality, sotempting to the Greeks, which brought their government in collision withthe Ionian authorities, and to restrain all such license of the press asmight indispose the courts of Europe to their cause:--such were theimportant objects which he had proposed to himself to accomplish, andtowards which, in this brief interval, and in the midst of suchdissensions and hindrances, he had already made considerable and mostpromising progress. But it would be unjust to close even here the brightcatalogue of his services. It is, after all, _not_ with the span of mortallife that the good achieved by a name immortal ends. The charm acts intothe future--it is an auxiliary through all time; and the inspiring exampleof Byron, as a martyr of liberty, is for ever freshly embalmed in hisglory as a poet.

HIS PORTRAIT.

Of his face, the beauty may be pronounced to have been of the highestorder, as combining at once regularity of features with the most variedand interesting expression.

The same facility, indeed, of change observable in the movements of hismind was seen also in the free play of his features, as the passingthoughts within darkened or shone through them. His eyes, though of alight grey, were capable of all extremes of expression, from the mostjoyous hilarity to the deepest sadness--from the very sunshine ofbenevolence to the most concentrated scorn or rage. Of this latter passion,I had once an opportunity of seeing what fiery interpreters they could be,on my telling him, thoughtlessly enough, that a friend of mine had said tome--"Beware of Lord Byron, he will, some day or other, do something verywicked." "Was it man or woman said so?" he exclaimed, suddenly turninground upon me with a look of such intense anger as, though it lasted notan instant, could not easily be forgot, and of which no better idea can begiven than in the words of one who, speaking of Chatterton's eyes, saysthat "fire rolled at the bottom of them."

But it was in the mouth and chin that the great beauty, as well asexpression of his fine countenance lay. "Many pictures have been paintedof him (says a fair critic of his features) with various success; but theexcessive beauty of his lips escaped every painter and sculptor. In theirceaseless play they represented every emotion, whether pale with anger,curled in disdain, smiling in triumph, or dimpled with archness and love."It would be injustice to the reader not to borrow from the same pencil afew more touches of portraiture. "This extreme facility of expression wassometimes painful, for I have seen him look absolutely ugly--I have seenhim look so hard and cold, that you must hate him, and then, in a moment,brighter than the sun, with such playful softness in his look, suchaffectionate eagerness kindling in his eyes, and dimpling his lips intosomething more sweet than a smile, that you forget the man, the Lord Byron,in the picture of beauty presented to you, and gazed with intensecuriosity--I had almost said--as if to satisfy yourself, that thus lookedthe god of poetry, the god of the Vatican, when he conversed with the sonsand daughters of man."

His head was remarkably small--so much so as to be rather out ofproportion with his face. The forehead, though a little too narrow, washigh, and appeared more so from his having his hair (to preserve it, as hesaid) shaved over the temples; while the glossy, dark-brown curls,clustering over his head, gave the finish to its beauty. When to this isadded, that his nose, though handsomely, was rather thickly shaped, thathis teeth were white and regular, and his complexion colourless, as goodan idea perhaps as it is in the power of mere words to convey may beconceived of his features.

In height he was, as he himself has informed us, five feet eight inchesand a half, and to the length of his limbs he attributed his being such agood swimmer. His hands were very white, and--according to his own notionof the size of hands as indicating birth--aristocratically small. Thelameness of his right foot, though an obstacle to grace, but littleimpeded the activity of his movements; and from this circumstance, as wellas from the skill with which the foot was disguised by means of longtrousers, it would be difficult to conceive a defect of this kind lessobtruding itself as a deformity; while the diffidence which a constantconsciousness of the infirmity gave to his first approach and address made,in him, even lameness a source of interest.